Boyish

Were I not the red-haired second son of a magus, my first ten years would have been completely mundane. I came home every day from school and pretended to do my homework while reading comic books. I played a sport or two during each season of the year — hockey in the winters and an assortment of soccer, touch football, and baseball in the others — and happily joined the other neighborhood boys in their youthful delusions around winning the Stanley Cup or the Vince Lombardi Trophy in the mysterious years that lay beyond those endless, restless days in a small Ontarian town. I had the usual qualms with my parents and went through the usual cycle of fallouts and reconciliations, though of course I enjoyed the unique experience of being punished with various experimental restraining charms and silence hexes.